


Happy Birthday, Sammy Lawrence

by Sp00py



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: It's Sammy's birthday today, and Bendy has a surprise for him. *wink*
Relationships: Bendy/Sammy Lawrence
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	Happy Birthday, Sammy Lawrence

**Author's Note:**

> RavenGryphon said it was Sammy's bday today, so here's.... this.

You stare at the -- the  _ thing _ placed before you, oozing viscous ink across your beautiful summoning circles. It horrifies you, this abomination crowned in candles you’d fought long and hard through the depths of the studio to acquire.

It disgusts you. It violates your sanctuary. That angel must have put it here in some form of mockery, terrible and beautiful (but mostly terrible) as she is.

Teeth grit so tight you can feel them sliding and slipping in the ink that is your body, you kneel down to heave it from its place right in the center.

Something burst forth from the mass and crashes into your mask, sending you careening back. Your hands fly to your face to set it right, to return your sight.

“Happy birthday, Sammy!” a wonderful and horrifying (but mostly wonderful) voice chirps out. Standing in that pile of gelatinous ink, globules dripping down His horns, across His face in mimicry of the larger, destructive form He can take, is your Lord.

Your heart remembers to beat, loud and frightened in the cavity of your chest. You have no clue what He must be thinking, what those strange words mean, but who are you to question. You scramble to knees before him, and your mask squelches into the coagulating ink at His feet.

“My Lord!” you gasp. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Didn’t cha hear me, ya goof?” Bendy says “Happy birthday!”

“Yes -- yes, my Lord! I heard,” you’re quick to assure Him, risking a glance up. “I cannot divine to even understand what they mean, though.”

“Haaaaappy,” Bendy says more slowly this time, as though simply slowing it down would make it comprehensible to you. “Birthday!” He flings His arms wide and droplets of ink fly off, several sizzling on candles and sending their flames dancing frantically for life. At your silence, He frowns, crosses His arms, and taps His finger against his wide, white teeth, all in an exaggerated gesture of thoughtfulness.

“Y’know, when I was torturin’ Alice for fun new ideas to do to ya--” A nauseating wave of jealousy mixed with relief that He was torturing the angel and not you (how  _ dare _ she steal His violent, agonizing attentions) rolls through you -- “She said somethin’ about it bein’ your birthday. Who even knows how she keeps time here, and what is time really, when ya think about it? But I had her explain t’ me what those were, ‘n’ she said it was when you were born.”

You’re not sure what esoteric knowledge she imparted into your Lord, but you could at least hazard a guess as to what it meant. “Born… from the Machine’s inky womb?”

“I guess?” Bendy says, sounding just as confused as you. “And we’re supposed to celebrate!”

You bow low again, mask hitting the floor. “I would be more than pleased to celebrate my creation to serve You, Lord Bendy.”

“‘Course ya would,” Bendy says kindly, patting you on the head. “And! She said there were presents involved.”

Your breath catches, and you dare not even hope. Could this be it? Is He finally freeing you from your inky dark abyss of a body, half-formed, half-rotten as it is?

Silence.

You risk glancing up. Bendy is smiling, though that does nothing to convey His emotions.

“Well?” He asks. You don’t know what to say in response. “Where’s my present, Sammy-boy?”

You’d had some vague notion -- a stupid, stupid thought -- that you were meant to receive the present. You don’t have a gift for Bendy. You weren’t prepared for this. You can already see his patience wearing thin.

“Ah, yes, of course, My Lord.” You bow again to the floor and pick yourself up. “Let me, ah, I shall go get it for You.”

“Knew I could count on ya, buddy!” Bendy flings himself back into the pile of goo and its fallen candles as though it’s a seat. Cake, you think. You like cake. Less so when it’s been sat upon by anybody’s ass, even your Lord’s, and comprised, it looks, of ink and bacon soup. Bendy picks up one of the candles and begins to eat it as you back hurriedly out of the room, dripping through the crevices in the walls.

Present. Present. What does one gift to a  _ god _ ? What could compare to the gifts He’d given you, to the world He’d created? You gaze around your sanctuary, with its walls of worship, its gurgling toilet, its sheet music -- ah! You can give nothing physical to Him that He could not simply conjure Himself, but perhaps…

You snatch up a banjo. You don’t need the music; you’ll compose from your heart that beats only for Him, only  _ because _ of Him.

You return a different route, one that the banjo can likewise travel. Bendy has rolled around in the cake, smeared it all across the floor and begun drawing crude, vulgar images of stick figures on your sites of worship. Blessing them with His imagination. He immediately pops up, horns and tail perked.

“Ya got me a banjo!” He cries, clapping His hands with excitement and reaching for it.

“N-no, My Lord.” It’s so hard to say no, even though what you will give Him is so much better. His hands drop, and there’s the faintest flicker of irritation. You hope He doesn’t maim you for daring to utter it. “I gift you not a mere instrument, but a hymn. A hymn to You, my Lord.”

Bendy’s mood immediately lightens, and He plops back down.

Clumsily you strum the strings with your three, thick fingers. It’s almost as if they’re made for something more numerous and nimble, but you have what you have.

“My Lord, You are most glorious, and Your ink shines so victorious in the daaark,” you warble out, and have the sudden sinking realization that one, impromptu song lyrics are  _ hard,  _ and two, a banjo is a terrible accompaniment to a hymn. “My Lord, You’re so deserving of worship, for granting this wretch the right to worship. Your might is to be feared, and Your love is to be revered. My Lord, You are most glorious, and Your ink shines so victorious in the daaark.”

The final vibrations from your banjo die away, and you’re sure you’re about to join them, because Bendy’s not smiling. He’s not frowning either.

“Not bad,” He decides, after an eternity. “I’ll even forgive ya for rhymin’ worship with worship, which is just plain sloppy ‘nd sorta makes me think you didn’t have a gift for me so just made this up on th’ fly.”

“I would  _ never _ ,” you say in a weird muddle of indignation and fear, before adding a belated, “My Lord.”

“And I know you would never,  _ ever _ lie t’ me, right?”

You nod so fervently your mask jiggles dangerously close to flinging off.

“Right. Anywho, I thought of another gift ya could give me while you were caterwaulin’ like a dyin’.... Thing.”

“.... Yes, my Lord?”

“I want ya caterwaulin’ fer a different reason.”

Your nonexistent stomach drops. “Of course, my Lord.”

Bendy bounces away from the circle, then gestures for you to follow.

“And bring yer banjo!”

A tingly mix of resignation and delight wars within you as you pick up the banjo. At least it’s not Alice He’ll be hurting. She doesn’t deserve even a modicum of His affections. You still can’t shake the disgust that He had given her any attention in the first place.

You take consolation in  _ this _ being your birthday gift, a night or day or however long He wants of His undivided attention. As you follow, head bowed, behind Bendy, you strum the banjo softly and murmur to yourself, “Glorious…. Glorious… what rhymes with glorious?”

**Author's Note:**

> idiot rhymes with it.


End file.
